


I'll be Back Someday

by Bilbows



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cree - Freeform, Cree McCree, Gen, Haida Fareeha "Pharah" Amari, Native American McCree, it's round dance season I can't help it, native american pharah, round dance, very corny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 16:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bilbows/pseuds/Bilbows
Summary: Coincidence and luck have brought Jesse McCree and Fareeha Amari to the snow-covered plains of Saskatchewan, and nostalgia draws Jesse to the warm welcome of a round dance nearby. With a recent mission finished and some downtime on hand, Jesse, and Fareeha dance to their hearts' content.





	I'll be Back Someday

White flakes float down silently, slowly, intently. The snowfall is ignited with the atomic orange of a building light up ahead, but everywhere else is an endless navy-blue haze. Rhythm booms and thunders from within the building, waiting for them; a warm heart pumping, pumping, pulling them to its center.

Jesse’s tongue extended upward and out, tasting the air and melted ice,

“Gross,” laughed Fareeha, who came up next to the lad. She’s wrapped in more layers than necessary, but it is a cold night. The coldest winters in Skidegate don’t come close to the prairie temperatures. By comparison, Jesse is wrapped in too few, having already forgotten what it really felt like in just a jean jacket and hoodie underneath. Neither of them is totally satisfied with their warmth, and so quickly, Jesse’s hand finds itself intertwined with Fareeha’s as they walk towards the building.

Doors of fiberglass already lay open for them, and a gust of wind greeted them in warmth as they entered the hall. Repetitive drums echo more clearly with the sound of lyrics now, blurred only by the sound of the dancers and on-lookers, and there are many of them.

The pair found themselves snaking through the crowd, a maze of familiar and yet unfamiliar faces and scents of cigarette smoke and leather and coffee as they pass by. Jesse leads, Fareeha follows. She trusts him to take her somewhere they’re meant to be—she’s never been to an event like this before.

Jesse has, and it’s all too familiar now, but t’s almost like he isn’t there; like he isn’t himself, like he’s only watching this happen. His eyes scanned the faces he passed for barely a second, trying to determine if they’re somebody he’s met before in what would now be years ago. He never thought he’d be back here.

By the end of the song, Jesse has found them both a seat among the bleachers. Third row, about a seat and a half to the right, seated next to an elderly woman with glasses and fluffy sweater. Fareeha’s eyes are scanning the scene ahead, she too is just watching this happen. The dancers spread out and dispersed, but a circular group of singers and drummers remained in the center.

“So, what happens now?” Fareeha asked. The dance MC has begun to chatter some, but Jesse pays him no mind in his reply,

“Nothing. We missed dinner break, so they’re going to sing again,”

“Oh.” That means little to Fareeha, but her eyes become glued to the dance floor nevertheless.

Another song has begun, and little Fareeha was eager to see its official beginnings. More dancers to the floor, each new participant linking hands with the dancer next to them. Their heads bob to the beat, but every so often a misstep or added dancer causes the dance to become out of tune for some bare few seconds. It’s a repetitive motion, captivating and energetic and hypnotic, lulling Fareeha.

The singing, of course, is in Cree, a language neither of the pair truly knew. Fareeha was Haida and Egyptian, and so had no real reason to learn it and probably never would. Jesse however, had simply never learned. He’s decided someday he would like to, or perhaps the defeat of never knowing would plague him for the rest of his days.

But even so, the singers perform as if their voices had safely locked their songs behind closed lips, waiting to sing only for and until this moment. In a way, they had; round dances are generally held in the winter, and the two just so happened to be lucky enough to be in the area. Very lucky indeed.

“I want to dance,” Fareeha’s voice is a dulled presence among the drumming, but the response nevertheless sends a pang into Jesse’s chest. He knew she would ask that, but somehow, he’s still taken aback in hoping she wouldn’t.

It’s been years. Years of negligence to the dance, and to warm halls in the winter, and booming music and familiar faces. He used to have a place among the singers once upon a time, his hand drumming a steady flick against the tightened hide, and his voice not displeasing among the choir of singers. But that was years ago. That was years ago.

Jesse’s eyes scan the floor ahead, the dancers having dispersed again. Inevitably a new song will come up soon, just after the singers have had their drink of water. _‘Ah, hell,’_ thinks Jesse: they didn’t come here for nothing. A thunderous boom is released by the lead singer, initiating the next dance. And they dance.

The small distance of travel is slowed by Jesse’s bashfulness, as there’s hardly anybody but them on the floor yet. The only other dancers are already circling on the other side. Jesse and Fareeha join hands; he leads, she follows. Their movements are awkward and gaudy, Jesse’s memory of the dance isn’t what it used to be, and Fareeha has little reference for manufacturing an imitation. Step slide, step slide, that’s what it was—it’s come back to him now. In no time at all the pair are sandwiched between strangers who’ve come to join hands with them.

He and Fareeha are closest to the drummers, and it appears their pulses and footwork were the most in sync with them. Or maybe it was just the booming in his ears, the drums conducting the flow of things in its demanding volume. Dancers behind them formed an outer circle of dancers, and then another. The three layers of movement came in waves, and the dancers in their colorful clothes became an aurora borealis right where they stood.

Jesse studied the sight in front of him, and suddenly he didn’t feel so out of place anymore. He turned his head to Fareeha, whose hand accompanied the warmth that came from her bared teeth in a smile.  Yes, this wasn’t so bad.

Dancing became smoother and more natural to him as if being there held some key to jogging his memory. Song after song passed, and the two danced to every one of them with confidence. Their heels burned, and their knees ached, but neither wanted to stop. Jesse relented only when he realized the amount of time they’d spent there, and his phone had gone neglected; concerned and unread messaged from Gabriel convinced him that they should leave.

One coffee break later, and Jesse’s news that they would be taking their leave of the dance did little for Fareeha’s spirits. Her cheeks hollowed, and her brows furrowed, “Do we really have to leave?”

Jesse nodded, “Boss says so.”

The friends stared at each other a moment but said nothing. They wouldn’t disobey Gabriel. And he was only worried, after all. The hour was late, and Jesse knew from experience that the event would be ending sometime soon anyway, but knowing this brought neither of them solace. Fareeha’s downcast face looked upwards, her expression a pitiful sight, “One more dance,” she pleaded.

Jesse didn’t argue with her.

Fareeha and Jesse entered the circle at the next available song, their hands joined for the last time there, and the arena rumbled alive once again. But this time, their entering of the circle could not have been more appropriate, for the song they are being sent off with is one Jesse knows.

It’s an old song, by an old drum group. An old song Jesse used to sing when he was not so old. Tears, for barely a second, cloud his vision when he hears the lyrics peak through the roaring of drums. He found himself singing under his breath, almost a quiet declaration into the void.

‘I hate to say goodbye, but I have to go my darling,’

Jesse looks around, it seems there are more people than ever. One last glance in searching for faces with resemblances to his own; maybe they are related, maybe not. Maybe he knew them once, a long time ago, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. His singing isn’t quite what it used to be, but it doesn’t matter.

‘I’ll be back someday.’


End file.
